


Katz in the Cradle

by sodium_amytal



Category: Dr. Katz: Professional Therapist
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Incest, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: For Ben, the phrase “Daddy kink” is no euphemism.





	Katz in the Cradle

Ben gets a hand-job in an otherwise empty theater from a man who looks like his father. The resemblance never crossed Ben's mind when he walked into the darkened sea of empty chairs and saw the man—the topography of his receding hairline reflecting the screen's light—sitting in the uppermost center seat. It never occurred to Ben that, during the movie's failed dramatic scenes, the soft and quiet laugh coming from behind reminded him of someone. And, when the man moved into Ben's row halfway through the movie, Ben didn't think the stutter of his own heartbeat indicated anything but fear that the guy was some kind of psychopath. Who else—aside from Ben Katz, Slacker Extraordinaire—would sneak off to a shoestring-budget zombie flick in the middle of a weekday? And who would do it dressed like a middle manager?

_Dad, I think one of your patients skipped out on his appointment today,_ Ben thought, and that was the only time his father consciously crossed his mind during the entire experience. But certainly that realization was there, buried

( _repressed_ )

somewhere in the screaming void of Ben's head. It would have been impossible  _not_  to notice the man and Ben's father shared the same hairstyle (Dad had once called it 'For Want of a Hairpiece' through a smattering of giggles), though this guy's hair was brown instead of black. Close enough for rock 'n roll, as the saying goes. His soft-spoken demeanor, the way he calmly pointed out inaccuracies and inanities in the film as they sat together in the dark, and the easy flow of banter… All of it was signature Dr. Jonathan Katz, Professional Therapist. While Ben did not correlate these things with his father, he did notice how deeply he craved this man's interest. Making him laugh that soft familiar titter gave Ben a dopamine rush, and when the man made him laugh in turn, Ben felt a flutter in his chest.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" Ben asks.

"It's my day off."

"And this is how you spend it?" On screen, zombies groan and pound the glass doors of the shopping mall, but Ben watches the man's face with sidelong interest. "This movie blows. The boom mic's been on-screen more than the zombies."

"I think that boom mic has its own SAG card," the man says.

Ben erupts into giggles, smothering his laughter with his hand. "And a damn good agent."

"I think we're witnessing the start of a very fruitful career. That boom mic's going to be the next big star, and we saw its humble beginnings here first in, um, what's the name of this movie?"

"How can you not know?" Ben asks. "You bought the ticket."

"I didn't, actually. I snuck in."

"Oh, wow, you're a rebel."

"I distracted the guards and everything."

Ben snorts. "Yeah, this place has some questionable security measures."

"The electric fence is a little excessive."

Ben laughs, choking a bit on a mouthful of popcorn. He tries to hide it by sucking down about half of his soda. But the stranger's laughing too, and not in a mean way, so Ben doesn't think he's humiliated himself beyond repair.

The man says, "No, actually, I bought a ticket for another movie, and when that one was over I came here."

"You theater-hopped? Don't they give you the death penalty for that?"

"No, no, just twenty-five to life. The death penalty is for people who sneak food in."

"Yeah, that's the worst crime you can commit in a theater."

"Tell that to Abraham Lincoln."

Ben laughs again, and he offers the guy his half-full bucket of popcorn. He has officially earned Snack Privileges.

* * *

 The man gives Ben his business card. According to the beveled text, he's a tax attorney named Ron Liebowitz, but to Ben he is Dad Two-Point-Oh.

* * *

 While the zombies swarm the shopping mall during the film's climax, the man puts his hand on Ben's thigh. It's warm and not entirely unpleasant. Ben doesn't tell him to stop, just inhales a short, quick breath in surprise. He tells himself the manic pulse of his heartbeat comes from the bloody bedlam onscreen, but he doesn't really believe that. His eyes might be fixed on the flickering glow of the movie screen, but the rest of his attention is fine-tuned to the sensations of the man's hand creeping between his thighs. Ben's hard-on aches. His skin, prickled with gooseflesh, feels taut and stretched tight. He smells a whiff of the man's cologne (or aftershave) over the theater's stench of butter and salt. He hears a voice ("Is this okay?") soft and sweet at his ear, and all Ben can manage is a nod.

Ben's fly is unzipped, and after a few seconds of fishing around in there, the man wraps a warm hand around Ben's cock. Ben stiffens and smothers a tiny gasp. He has never been touched like this before—not outside the confines of his bedroom—and definitely not by a man. It's not disagreeable, and Ben spreads his legs wider, slinking down in the seat. Suddenly, he is terrified someone will walk in—an usher on break, or another theater-hopper—and see Ben getting a hand job from a man old enough to be his father.

"You're circumcised," the man says plainly. Ben looks at him, and the onscreen explosions reflect like shooting stars in his eyes. "You're Jewish?"

"My father is," Ben croaks.

The man nods as though this explains a great deal. His touch is gentle, exploratory, and Ben feels the smooth pads of fingers over the tip of his cock. He groans and drops his head back against the seat. His eyes are shut, and he covers the man's hand with his own. Ben likes the heat of his skin, likes the coarse hair along the man's arm and the back of his hand. It feels… familiar.

He's murmuring in Ben's ear, coaxing and praising, his fingers slick with precum, and when he calls him "Benny," Ben loses himself.

* * *

 Half an hour later, Ben stumbles into the loft apartment he shares with his father. Dad's sitting at the kitchen table with take-out cartons strewn around him. "Oh, there you are, Ben. I got Chinese," he says.

"Oh, yeah? I just thought you decided to start eating all your meals out of old take-out boxes."

Dad huffs his ' _I'm humoring you_ ' laugh, but he never seems to tire of Ben's bad jokes or limp sarcasm. It's one of the things Ben loves most about his father. "Well, I hope you're hungry, Mr. Smart Mouth, because I ordered you your favorite."

"Kung Pao chicken?"

Dad nods and taps the side of his forehead. "See, I remember things." Another quality Ben loves about Dr. Jonathan Katz, though he'll never admit it out loud.

On any other day, Ben would pull up a chair and dig in, but he feels nauseated by what he's done. "Thanks, Dad, but I'm not really hungry."

Dad blinks, concern shining in his wide eyes. "Are you sick? Your voice sounds funny. You might be coming down with something."

Ben's voice sounds funny because he let a guy jerk him off in a dark theater thirty minutes ago. "Don't worry. It's not a big deal. Just stick my food in the fridge. I'll eat it later."

Dad tells Ben he will, but he's still wearing that concerned therapist face. "Would you want to join me on the couch for some TV time? We'll watch whatever you want, even one of those badly-written violent movies you love so much."

Ben ducks around the table, afraid Dad will read his face if he lingers too long. "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'm just gonna lie down for a bit. I think I ate too much popcorn at the movies."

"Oh, so you spoiled your dinner." Dad smiles, his dark eyebrows rising in a silent interrogative. "What movie did you see?"

"Some lame zombie flick," Ben says with a shrug and disappears into his room before Dad can protest.

Dad must suspect that Ben is hiding something. They have known each other too long to let these sort of things go by unnoticed.

* * *

 Ben takes a shower. He hopes the water might cleanse him somehow, might wash away what he's done and how it made him feel. But in this steamy private space, he can only relive and reenact it. His own hand isn't as satisfying as Not-Dad's had been, but it gets the job done. He comes against the shower tile, his knees shaking and his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy and revulsion.

It isn't the gay thing, or the fact that the man is probably twice Ben's age. Neither of those bother Ben, really, when he gets right down to it. It's the man's resemblance to Ben's father

( _don't go there)_

right down to the little details, like his soothing voice and the thick hair on his forearms

( _Benjamin Daniel Katz, don't take one more step down this road)_

and even the gentle way he called him "Benny." That name set off a chain of memories in Ben's head like landmines. But the  _coup de grâce_  of his orgasm had not been a memory, but an image, a nightmarish fantasy Ben has simmered in his brain for the past few years. The image is of his father sticking a hand down the front of Ben's shorts and stroking his cock. That was what really got Ben off, the fundamental ingredient that made his orgasm hit like an exploding bullet.

_You're fucked_ , he thinks, watching the water swirl down the drain.

* * *

 Together, Ben and his father eat at the breakfast table as they do every morning. "I see you're feeling better," Dad says with optimism over his coffee mug.

Ben crunches a mouthful of cereal. "'Cause I'm eating?"

"You don't normally turn down food," Dad says, and he's not wrong.

"Good thing I don't mind leftovers."  _Crunch, crunch._

"But you still look a little peaked. Did you sleep okay last night?"

Ben doesn't tell Dad that he dreamt about them entangled in a knot of sweaty nudity. "Yeah."

Dad sips his coffee. "So do you have anything going on today?"

"Actually, yeah. I'm gonna call a friend of mine and see if he wants to hang out."

"Anyone I know?"

"Maybe. He could be your evil twin."

Dad giggles; it's the same laugh Ben inherited from him, the one he's most self-conscious about ( _what grown man_ giggles _?),_ but he finds it cute when Dad does it. "Oh really? Does he have a twirly mustache or an eyepatch?"

"No, he pretty much looks exactly like you."

"Then he's not my evil twin. He's just a guy who looks like me."

"Maybe  _you're_  the evil twin," Ben says, and Dad laughs.

"Well, I did double-park yesterday at lunch."

Ben grins despite himself.

"But, you know, Ben, statistically everyone has at least one look-alike out there," Dad says. "Even you."

"Lucky guy," Ben says, earning another laugh.

* * *

 After Dad leaves for work, Ben calls the number on Not-Dad's business card.

"You wanna hang out?" Ben asks after getting the pleasantries out of the way.  _Asking a man probably twice your age to "hang out"? Real attractive, dipshit._

Not-Dad says that he does, and they meet at his home on the outskirts of the city. It's much too far to walk, so Ben takes a cab. He pays the driver with money he sniped from Dad's wallet this morning while his father was in the shower. Ben's lack of a steady income (or any income at all outside of money he borrows from Dad), his lack of a car, and his wide-open availability in the middle of a weekday make him feel inadequate. Not-Dad's lavish, expensive house amplifies Ben's inferiority complex. He stands there on the paved walkway, looking up at the two-story Colonial.

_You really think this guy gives a shit about you? When he finds out what a fucking loser you are, that you're twenty-five and unemployed_

_(and a total virgin)_

_and still living with your dad, he won't stick around._

On some level, Ben knows this is true, but he doesn't care. He'll take what he can get, what he's allowed.

He rings the doorbell.

* * *

 Almost-Dad opens a bottle of wine, and he and Ben drink at the small table near the dining room window. "Cool place," Ben tells him, trying not to seem too impressed. "You, uh, got any kids?"

"No," he says, and this comes as a huge relief to Ben. So he's not a total clone of Dad, just a very convincing doppelgänger. "That part of my life never really got started. But it's harder for people like us."

Ben doesn't want to come across like an idiot, but he has no idea what 'people like us' is supposed to mean. He wagers his best guess: "Jews?"

Almost-Dad laughs. "No, men who are interested in other men. Romantically. Or sexually. Or both."

"Oh." Is that what Ben is? Or are his gay thoughts directed like Cupid's arrow towards one particular person?  _Does it matter,_  he wonders. "Yeah, I guess it would be harder."

"Do you date a lot?"

Ben diverts his gaze to his hands, ashamed of his inexperience. "Do you?"

"I asked you first." That's flirtation; Ben knows it when he hears it.

"Oh, y'know, I, uh, I do my fair share of playing the field. First base. Second base. All the bases. And the outfield. A lot of people forget about the outfield, but it's very important."

Not-Dad watches him with an almost condescending fondness. It's an expression Ben has seen on his father's face many times. "Oh, absolutely."

"Are you familiar with it?"

"With the outfield? Of course. It's my favorite."

"You've got no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Not a clue."

They both laugh, and the air relaxes around them. The brittle tension Ben felt upon entering the house has disappeared, replaced by the familiar ease they shared in the theater.

* * *

 They end up in the bedroom after two more drinks. Almost-Dad is lying beside Ben, their mouths latched in exploration. Ben doesn't know if he's kissing properly, if he's using too much tongue or if his mouth is too wet. He's never kissed anyone before, not like this. It's new and exciting, a mix of sensations that makes him unbearably hard. Ben's hips sway forward—into the jutting slope of Not-Dad's thigh—away, then against him again. Sweet, sweet friction stirs the ache in his balls, and Ben groans. Not-Dad kisses the line of Ben's jaw, then down his neck. His hand slides underneath Ben's t-shirt and explores his stomach. Ben almost moves away, feeling self-conscious and fat, but his skin is incredibly sensitive here, new and untouched. This warm tickle goes straight to his dick, and Ben's cock tents almost cartoonishly in his shorts. He wants to reach down and relieve the thrum of hot blood in his most sensitive part, but he'd prefer a different hand besides his own.

"I want to put my fingers in you," Not-Dad says, and this admission of desire is spoken so clinically it reminds Ben of his father. He pushes Ben's shorts down his thighs and takes care not to jostle his erection. "Will you let me do that?"

Ben's mouth has never been drier, despite his worries about too much saliva just moments ago. He swallows with an audible gulp and finds he can't speak. He supposes an eager nod will suffice.

Not-Dad strips off Ben's undershorts and teases a lube-slick finger at his hole. A gasp bubbles up in Ben's throat. Almost-Dad slips that finger inside ( _he_ must _be the evil twin,_ Ben realizes), and muscles Ben hadn't known existed flutter in his groin. He has, of course, experimented with his own fingers this way, but, as with all masturbatory acts, there's nothing like the real thing. He lets out a quiet moan and rocks his hips, seeking ( _needing_ ) more. He's aware that the man is looking at him, gazing at his face in awe or admiration, but Ben can't meet his eyes. He just stares at the hand between his legs and the obscene jut of his own cock.

"Feels good," Ben says, his voice quaking. He throws his leg over the man's hip, and Not-Dad pumps his finger in and out, going deeper this time. Ben whimpers and shuts his eyes.

"Is this your first time?"

Ben nods again, unable—or perhaps unwilling—to admit it aloud.

"It's okay. I won't hurt you. I have gentle hands." And he does; they are soft and smooth, the hands of a man who has done no hard labor, working Ben open before another digit joins its partner.

Ben groans, thrilled by how fucking  _full_ he is. He drags his nails through the coarse hair on the man's arm. Not-Dad hums a contented noise; the window of memory opens, and Ben hears his father humming while eggs sizzle on the stovetop, hears Dad humming an unrecognizable tune as he strums chords on his guitar. Ben's hips stutter and lurch. A cry escapes his mouth, and that soft voice murmurs in his ear—"Come for me, Benny, it's all right"—and Ben is gone.

* * *

 Later, Ben jerks him off, his face pressed against the slope of the man's neck, and listens to the soft sighs and praises whispered in that familiar voice. The sound of it makes Ben hard again. His hand is clumsy around Almost-Dad's cock, unpracticed at this angle, but he helps Ben along by nudging his hips into the strokes. When the man comes, his cries of affirmation sharp and breathy and strained, Ben feels a sudden, tight upsurge in his balls, and he's lost again.

* * *

 Ben makes it home later than usual, just as the sinking sun has turned the sky pink and purple. After leaving Not-Dad's house, he walked to the nearest bus stop and caught subsequent buses back into the city. He was too blissed-out to think of a half-decent lie ("My car's in the shop, can you give me a ride?"), too ashamed of his circumstances to admit the truth. He comes through the front door of the apartment. The living room and kitchen are unoccupied, and he hears the soft distant sounds of music. He follows the sound, stopping just short of the doorway to Dad's bedroom.

Ben doesn't recognize the music—Dad has a repertoire of about ten original songs, and Ben's familiar enough with Dad's old-fogey, hippie-era acoustic staples—so it must be something new. It's more complex than Dad's usual arrangements, though not by much. His father hums in place of lyrics, and Ben feels that flutter again. Ben lingers in the hall, eavesdropping, waiting for Dad to inevitably hit the wrong chord, string, or note like he usually does, but the fumble does not come. Ben has never heard his father play guitar without at least an audience of one; those foibles and fuck-ups might be products of Dad's nerves.

The song is slow and sweet, stirring butterflies in Ben's stomach. He remains in the hall (no, he's not  _hiding_ , that would be ridiculous) until the song comes to a close. Then Ben steps inside the open doorway and says, "Now play 'Stairway to Heaven.'"

Dad's sitting on the edge of the bed. He looks up from his guitar, startled, his face flushed with chagrin. "Ben! I didn't know you were home. How much did you hear?"

"Enough to be bored. Can you write something that rocks at least a little?" Ben holds his thumb and index finger apart to indicate how little.

"I think my rocking days are done, if they ever began."

True enough, Ben thinks. His father rocks about as hard as Simon and Garfunkel.  _Parsley, sage, rosemary, and snooooore._

Dad sets his guitar aside and pats the empty space on the bed. "Come in. Tell me about your date."

Ben stiffens. "It wasn't a date."

"I didn't say it was."

"Yes, you did."

"Is that what you heard? I said 'day.'"

Ben doesn't know if he really misheard or if his father's trying to cover up some sort of Freudian slip. At a loss for how to respond, he frowns.

In contrast, Dad smiles. "I always hoped you'd meet a nice older man to sweep you off your feet."

"Dad… He's just a friend." The schoolboy blush on Ben's cheeks belies his words. His blood vessels are assholes.

"But even if it was a date, you don't need to be embarrassed about it. Do you really think I would love you any less if you were gay?"

_Gay? Sure, I bet you'd thrown on a rainbow t-shirt and march alongside me in the pride parade. But I think even you, Dr. Katz, would draw the line at your son having the hots for you._

Dad seems to interpret Ben's silence as agreement that, yes, his love is conditional. An expression of bewildered hurt crosses Dad's face, like he's just seen a puppy being kicked. No one should ever look so heartbroken, specially Dad. "Oh, Benny, no. Come here."

Ben's still frozen in the doorway, so Dad comes to him and hugs Ben tight. The press of his body arouses Ben, and there's a moment where his hard-on pushes urgently at Dad's thigh before Ben's lower body jerks away. If Dad noticed the brief appearance of Ben's erection, he doesn't mention it.

"You're my son," he says when the embrace is released, "and I love you. The most important thing to me, Ben, is that you're happy." Dad takes Ben's hands in his own. "I want you to understand that there's nothing you could do or say that would ever make me stop loving you."

Ben feels hot all over, like he's trapped under a heat lamp. "Ever?"

"Ever ever."

"Well, that would be great if I was dating this guy. Which I'm not."

"Okay."

"I mean, he looks just like you." Ben chuckles nervously. "Why would I—why would I want to date a guy who looks just like my dad?"

"Well, sometimes people are attracted to features or traits they recognize from one of their caregivers."

"Is that—do you see that often? Like in your patients?"

"I don't think it would be ethical to talk about my patients."

Ben needs to stop before Dad reads into things, but he's never had any luck he hasn't pushed just for the hell of it. "You don't have to name names."

"I can't talk about specific cases, but what I can tell you is that it's not uncommon."

Ben feigns a dismissive laugh. "Isn't that weird? I mean, it's not exactly normal to want to bone down with a lookalike of your mom or dad."

"I don't like to use the word 'normal' with regards to people's preferences," Dad says. "The more you see of this great wide world, the more you realize there's no such thing as normal."

Dad seems to be skirting the topic, as though he'd rather not offend if Ben wants to go to pound-town with his dad's doppelgänger.

* * *

 Ben eats a late dinner (last night's leftover Chinese) in front of the TV, his skin still tingling in the places he's been touched.

* * *

 "Dr. Katz, did something happen to Ben?" Laura asks the following morning when Jon arrives at his office.

"What makes you think something happened?"

"Well, he hasn't called me in about"—she checks her watch—"thirty-six hours, so I just assumed…"

"I think he's been seeing someone," Jon says.

"Like a psychiatrist?"

"No, like a date."

"With an actual human woman?"

"You know, Laura, Ben can be charming when he wants to be." Jon wonders if Laura hears the defensive edge in his voice. "I know that's probably not the impression that you get—"

"Not at all," she agrees with no enthusiasm.

"—but I'm glad that he's found someone who's taken an interest in him. He's been a little shy about the details, but I think that's what's going on."

Laura gives him a questioning look but doesn't push the issue.

* * *

 Jon doesn't know what to make of Ben lately. He's been withdrawn, unusually quiet and avoidant. Jon considers that Ben has discovered himself, that a long-overdue sexual awakening has occurred, and Ben's too embarrassed about his preferences to have an open conversation about it. Jon can understand that, though he hopes he hasn't given any indication that Ben ought to be afraid of honesty. While times have changed a great deal since Jon was Ben's age, the world is still quite hostile to the concept of queerness. Many of his patients live in closets constructed out of societal prejudice, fear, and their own internalized self-hatred. Jon doesn't want that for Ben, and as long as Ben feels even remotely comfortable discussing the subject, he'll encourage his son to the moon and back.

Does it mean anything that Ben might be romantically (or sexually) involved with a man who bears a striking resemblance to his father? Jon isn't a Freudian (he finds Freud more insightful as a philosopher rather than a psychologist), so he doesn't buy the theory that everyone wants to bang their parents. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. But he  _worries_.

He has worried since the day Ben was born, then the worry amplified ten-fold when Roz left the family and left Jon in charge of a confused, angry teenager. Those first few years post-divorce, living with Ben was tantamount to dismantling a bomb. "How was school?"  _Boom._  "Think you might look for a summer job?"  _Boom._  "Want to do something this weekend?"  _Boom._  After those chaotic teenage years, Ben mellowed out and abandoned the hot coal of his anger. But along with his anger, he seemed to lose his passion too, his _joie de vivre._ So whenever Ben took an interest in something that wasn't outrageously dangerous, Jon encouraged him, hoping to stoke that fire.

He hopes Ben isn't being taken advantage of or manipulated by this mysterious older man; Jon can see how Ben might ignore the forest for the trees if it meant getting something he wanted. But what is it that Ben's looking for here? Love? Companionship? Sex? He already gets most of that from Jon, and two out of three ain't bad.

_How much convincing would Ben have to do to break you down on that third one? If he asked, if he begged, pleaded, got on his knees and—_

"No," Jon whispers to his empty office, and there's an undertone of fear there. "No. He's my son." And yet Jon is gripped with a terrible premonition that this boundary will mean nothing at some indistinguishable point in the future.

_Sure, he's the fruit of your loins, but he's not a kid anymore. You didn't start looking at him 'that way'_

_(the wrong way)_

_until last year. Whatever you're thinking might be sick and wrong, but it's not criminal._

Yes, Jon's conscience is clear on that front. It had been Ben's recent development into a handsome young adult that caught Jon's interest, and the way their relationship evolved from father and son into roommates who bicker and get along like an old married couple.

_And whose fault is that,_  a voice inside speaks up.  _You clipped his wings so he couldn't fly away. When push comes to shove, you back down and let him mooch off you. Because you need him more than he needs you. If Ben ever got a real taste of independence, you'd be all alone._

Suppose—just suppose—that was true. Did it cast a new light on Ben's older beau?

The intercom on Jon's desk crackles, and he nearly flails right out of his chair. Laura's voice through the intercom says, "Dr. Katz, Dom Irrera is here."

"Send him in, please."

* * *

 On Ben's second date, he learns how to give head. What he lacks in technique he makes up for in enthusiasm. He kneels between Almost-Dad's open legs, his mouth spit-slick and eager to please. Ben listens to the man's grunts and groans and adjusts his performance accordingly. He seems to like when Ben moans around him, the way Ben's tongue traces the ridges of his cock. The act carries with it a kind of power; he could bite the guy's dick off with a clench of his jaw. Ben flattens his tongue down the shaft, and Not-Dad's hands (gripped tight in Ben's hair) pull him closer, urging, pleading. Ben takes him in a little deeper, the best that he can without gagging, and soon learns whether he spits or swallows.

The taste, coffee-bitter on his tongue, still lingers even as Ben lies on the bed for his own go-round. Ben leans back on his elbows and watches; through his half-lidded eyes, the man kneeling at the foot of the bed with Ben's dick in his mouth looks like his father, and the sight is both terrifying and strangely pleasurable.

In his mind Ben hears his father's voice:  _sometimes people are attracted to features or traits they recognize from one of their caregivers._

_Yep,_  Ben thinks, biting his lip to hold back a chuckle that spills out anyway.  _I'm a real sick puppy, Daddy-o. Do your psychology books cover any of this shit?_

* * *

 Jon notices every time Ben comes home with love bites up and down his neck. The marks on Ben's skin stir a perverse jealousy inside Jon, and he can't help but wonder how they might have gotten there: just innocent necking, or from something stronger and more dangerous? Because his brain is an asshole, Jon imagines Ben bent over while some second-rate stranger plows him and bites kisses along the slope of his neck. Does this 'boyfriend' know anything about Ben beyond the surface? Does he know how much Ben treasures his stuffed bull, Bully, even at twenty-five years old? Or how, when Ben was much, much younger, he would climb into bed with Jon on snow days and listen to the school cancellations on the radio? Or that Ben's favorite childhood snack was a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich? No, of course not. This guy probably only sees Ben as an eager hole to fuck, someone young and inexperienced who can make him feel like a man again.

_You don't know that for sure,_  Jon reminds himself, trying not to fall into that mental tar-pit. But the more he ruminates on it, the more Jon believes he does know. Ben seems morose lately, which doesn't jive with getting a boyfriend. A new relationship isn't a cure-all, but in Ben's case it ought to at least lift his spirits a bit, considering how Ben dives head-first into anything that even remotely catches his interest. If this guy was good to him, he'd be all Ben ever talks about. But Ben shirks the subject and makes awkward excuses to exit the conversation when Jon brings it up.

_You don't need to be a psychiatrist to see what's going on here…_

Jon's anger turns to guilty horror. If he'd been a better father, would Ben have given himself to the first person to show him affection? If Ben is being used, Jon ought to shoulder the blame for making him so gullible and love-hungry. It's not as if Jon didn't try his best with Ben, but clearly his best resulted in an emotionally-crippled human being who can't exist in the adult world. He has coddled and sheltered Ben from any sort of real challenge, and now the bill has come due.

_Do you see what being the Favorite Parent gets you, Jon?_

* * *

 Jon takes Ben's hand while they're sitting together on the couch. Ben's face turns a patchy red, but he doesn't pull his hand away; he rarely does, which Jon interprets as a deep craving for human touch. "Ben, would you tell me if you needed help?"

"Help with what?" Ben asks with care, measuring his words as though fearful of a slip.

"Anything. I want you to know you don't need to be afraid to come to me."

"Okay… Well, I'm not. Why are you being so weird lately?"

"I'm concerned about you. You're my son. The most important thing in my life."

Ben blushes harder. Still, he does not take his hand away. "Wow, get a life, Dad," he says with a quiet chuckle. "Or get a better one."

"Just answer me this, Ben. This guy you're seeing… Is he making you do things you don't want to do?" Jon doesn't know how to phrase it any more delicately, but Ben seems to understand what he's getting at.

"You mean, like, sexually?"

"I mean anything that makes you uncomfortable."

"Does this conversation count?"

Jon hides a twitch of a smile. "Maybe I'm the problem."

"Yeah, Dad, maybe you are," Ben says. It doesn't come with his standard ' _I'm just fucking with you_ ' chuckle, and Jon thinks he's hit a nerve.

"So we should stop talking about this?"

"Yeah, that's a good start."

They sit in a comfortable silence and watch TV together. Jon notices how Ben eventually settles against his shoulder.

* * *

 "Hey, Laura."

She's surprised to hear from him. Dr. Katz claims Ben's lack of phone calls stems from his new relationship. Laura can't imagine the kind of person who could tolerate Ben enough to date him.

"Ben. It's been a while." Only a few days, but that's longer than Laura has ever gone without hearing from him.

"Were you worried?"

"No, not really."

"Did you think I died?"

"No. Your dad would have said something if you were dead."

Ben says, "Did my dad tell you I'm seeing someone?"

"I think he did mention that. What's wrong with her?"

"Actually," Ben says, drawing the word out as though there is suspense in the anticipation, "it's a guy."

She's speechless. She never imagined he might be bisexual.

Ben chuckles at her silence. "Yeah, that's right. We're here, we're queer, get used to it,  _Laura_. It's the '90s."

"I just—Wow." Dr. Katz never mentioned this particularly juicy detail, though he was a bit ambiguous regarding the pronouns of Ben's date. But why the hell is Ben telling her this? Is he looking for brownie points? "Does your dad know?" Laura asks.

"Yeah, he's… encouraging."

"This guy must be a total loser if he's dating you."

"He's not a loser," Ben scoffs, offended. "He's just… Okay, he's not the coolest guy around, but whatever. He's nice. He likes me. Y'know, sometimes in life you've gotta make sacrifices."

"Mhmm." Laura flips a page of the  _People_  magazine she's reading.

"But he's, uh… We like watching movies. He's really funny. And"—Ben lowers his voice like he's about to reveal government secrets—"he's pretty good in the sack."

"Ew, Ben, that's disgusting!"

"If the idea of two men making love bothers you so much—"

"It only bothers me when one of them is you."

"I guess that's fair," Ben says, sounding a little disappointed.

Taking pity on Ben, Laura asks, "Where'd you meet him?"

"At the movies. We were the only people in the theater."

"So he's a slacker too?"

"No, actually, he's a, uh"—Ben pauses, and Laura hears him fumbling for something—"he's a tax attorney."

Laura scrunches up her nose. "How old is this guy?"

"Well, he's… a little older than me."

"How much older?" Factoring in college and law school, he would be twenty-six if he entered college right away. That would only make him about a year or so older than Ben, but given the way Ben hesitated when he answered, Laura suspects a larger age gap.

"Like… closer to my dad's age."

"That's so sad."

"It's called a May-December romance. Look it up."

"I am," Laura says, doing no such thing. She loudly flips a magazine page so it sounds like she's doing as he asked. "Oh look. It says: Ben, you're dating your dad."

Ben laughs skittishly. "No, it doesn't. Where'd you look it up?"

Laura flips another page. "The dictionary."

"Wow, they really keep that thing up-to-date, huh?"

"Ben, you already have a boring older man in your life: your dad. What do you need this guy for?"

"Y'know what? I don't appreciate your tone," Ben says, and in a rare turn of events, he hangs up first.

* * *

 "Dr. Katz?"

"Laura? Come on in."

Laura lets herself inside Jon's office. The day's end is near, the weekend within reach, and Jon's looking forward to unwinding with a few drinks tonight.

"We need to talk about Ben," Laura says. She does not sit, only stands in the middle of the room with her arms folded over her chest.

"Oh no, what did he do now?"

"How much do you know about his date?"

_I knew it_ , Jon thinks, heat rising in his cheeks. A drilling anger fills him, and he's seized by the urge to hunt this guy down and put a boot (or a reasonably-priced loafer) in his ass for laying a hand on Ben. But then his rational mind kicks in to calm the fire. For whatever reason, Ben might be ashamed or afraid to admit what's been going on, but would he really confide something like that in Laura? Doubtful.

Jon says, "From what I've gathered, it's an older man. Ben also mentioned that he looks like me."

"Does he?"

"I haven't seen him, so I can't really judge that comparison."

Laura lifts an eyebrow. "And you don't think it's weird that Ben's dating a man who looks like you?"

"Not at all. It might be unorthodox, but it's not uncommon." Jon steeples his fingers, considering. "I like to think I've been a good role model for Ben, and he's subconsciously seeking similar traits and qualities in a partner."

Laura makes a face like she doesn't buy his explanation. And Jon doesn't wholly buy it either, because it only solves one half of the equation. The other half, why Ben is so sullen and secretive and downright awkward around his father, remains a mystery.

"I don't know. I think—" Laura cuts herself off, shakes her head. "Never mind, I shouldn't tell you." She moves to leave, but Jon stops her with a plea.

"Laura, wait. Tell me, please, whatever it is. Ben and I are close, but lately he hasn't been communicating in a way that helps me help him." Jon considers that he's being a dick here; maybe Ben told Laura some secret with assurance that it would stay between the two of them. "Did he swear you to secrecy?"

"No. He was actually kind of bragging about it." Laura frowns and takes a moment to consider her options—or, perhaps, steeling herself to say the words. "I think Ben's just with this guy for the sex. And Dr. Katz, you owe me a raise for making me talk about Ben's sex life."

"I can do that," Jon agrees.

* * *

 It shouldn't bother him, but it does. Jon sits at the bar, sipping a tepid beer and listening to Stanley blather on in hopes of impressing Julie. He knows there's nothing wrong or even unusual about Ben partaking in a relationship solely for sex. Ben is still young, at just the right age to experiment and sow some wild oats, as the saying goes. And, sure, maybe Ben would look for a partner with experience, someone who wouldn't pressure him to perform, someone who might enjoy the prospect of taking his virginity (or at least voiding the warranty).

And maybe, just maybe, Jon could buy the theory that Ben's gravitating toward someone who bears a resemblance to his primary caregiver. Jon thinks the more he says it, the more he believes it, but it still won't go down all the way. There are too many variables, and that's no way to run a scientific study with any validity. For one, there's Ben's sheepishness about the whole affair. He's probably just embarrassed that his dad knows he's bisexual, but Ben knows Jon well enough to know that's nothing to be ashamed of. Neither Jon nor Roz raised Ben to discriminate; Jon was a peace-and-love touting hippie when he was Ben's age, for fuck's sake. Ben's always been a soft boy underneath it all. The closeness and ease of their father-son relationship does not let shame thrive. They have no secrets from each other.

_Except for that one big secret you keep locked inside your fucked-up head. You know, the one with your cock and Ben's ass?_

_No, but if you hum a few bars, I'll fake it._

Secondly comes the matter of Ben's boyfriend having an uncanny resemblance to Jon himself. That's where the attraction theory derails for him. He recalls something about how family members (or was it only siblings?) are hard-coded not to be attracted to each other. Ben might look for Jon's empathy or sense of humor in a partner, but the physical? Enough of a resemblance that the man could be Jon's (evil) twin?

In the last few years, they've joked about their relationship resembling a marriage (" _You're not the man I married, Dad")._  Jon's teasing had a ring of truth buried deep down. Were Ben's jokes the same way?

"What's eatin' you?" Stanley asks, elbowing Jon in the side to snap him out of his trance.

Jon says, "Ben and I are having trouble communicating. I think something's bothering him, but he won't tell me what it is."

_Don't be an idiot,_  his subconscious whispers. _You know exactly what the problem is: Ben's dating this Dr. Katz lookalike because he can't date_ you _._

_Impossible,_ Jon tells himself and banishes the thought. Surely if that were the case he would have noticed a shift in Ben's behavior. Something that huge couldn't fly under the radar.

_He's hiding it. Like father, like son._

* * *

 Ben's on the couch at his (and Dad's) apartment, making out with his father's doppelgänger. Dad usually stays late at the bar on Friday nights, so Ben figured it was safe to extend an invitation. Not-Dad has hosted their dates twice, and Ben didn't want to look like he's taking advantage of the guy's generosity. He's already screwed that one up with Dad, overstaying his welcome without giving anything in return. But with Not-Dad, Ben gives plenty.

He's straddling the man's hips, practically sitting in his lap. They're both still fully-clothed, though shirts and pants have been unbuttoned. Ben shivers as warm hands push underneath his shirt and skim over his stomach. Being touched is still new and exciting for Ben. He groans, his fingers weaving through the man's hair and lacing at the top of his balding head. Ben's eyes are closed, and the mix of sensations under his fingers and against his skin are almost too much. The last thing he wants is to come in his pants like a fucking teenager.

Not-Dad pushes a hand down the open front of Ben's shorts, angling for his cock. Ben moans, "Wait," and the hand withdraws. "I wanna do you first…"

* * *

 The first thing Jon sees when he opens the door is an almost uncanny display of what he might look like getting sucked off by Ben. His son is kneeling at the feet of a man who bears a great resemblance to Jon himself. Ben's head is between the man's legs, and there are hands in Ben's hair, tugging and pulling and guiding. Ben's shirt hangs loose, exposing a tantalizing bare shoulder.

It's only a fleeting glimpse before the embarrassed couple scramble away from each other and Jon shuts himself outside of the apartment again, but the image has burned into his brain. Jon is certain it will flash in his mind's eye every time he masturbates. He'll lie awake in bed and work on it, like a dog gnawing on a strip of rawhide.

On the other side of the door, Ben's swearing and apologizing to his guest.

"Ben, it's not a big deal," Jon reassures him through the door. "Let me know when you're both decent, and I'll slip right into my room. You won't hear a peep from me."

Ben's probably not concerned about hearing Jon; the walls are thin enough that they can hold conversations from their respective bedrooms with only slightly raised voices. Any sexual activity from Ben's room (moaning, groaning, the squeak of bed springs, the thump of the headboard against the wall) would travel right to Jon's ears, and what a night that would be.

"No, no, no," Ben pleads, but he's not talking to Jon. "C'mon, you don't have to leave! You heard him. It's fine. We'll just—"

"Ben, you're a sweet kid, but I think you and your dad have some issues to work out," the man says, then he's opening the door, and Jon is face-to-face with what must certainly be his evil twin. Ben wasn't kidding when he said the guy could be Jon's double. Though there are a few differences (different hair and eye colors, the guy's a little bit taller and maybe a few years younger), the evidence of Ben's, uh, Daddy kink is really piling up.

"You're Ben's father?" the man asks, and his expression says he sees the resemblance too.

"That's right. Dr. Jonathan Katz."

He shakes Jon's proffered hand and introduces himself as Ron Liebowitz. "You're a doctor, huh?"

"Therapist."

The man chuckles. "Now that's ironic."

"Oh, are you a doctor too?"

"No, I'm a tax attorney."

"I don't see how that's ironic."

"You will. I wish we didn't have to meet this way."

Jon nods, because that's what you do in a situation like this. "Likewise. I hope you're not leaving on my account."

"No, I have an early start tomorrow anyway. But for Ben's sake, I hope you're a good therapist." Before Jon can ask what that's supposed to mean, the man departs down the hall.

Ben has disappeared when Jon gets inside, but he assumes Ben's sulking behind the closed door of his bedroom. "Ben? I'm knocking this time," Jon says, rapping on the door.

"Go away." Ben's voice is taut with emotion: anger, fear, shame, or a mix of all three. This is not a situation in which Ben is best left alone.

Jon turns the knob, and the door swings open. Ben's lying facedown on the bed as if he's sobbing into the pillows, but his body is perfectly still, save for the slow rise and fall of his breathing.

Jon decides to break the ice with humor. "So that's your boyfriend? I'll give you this: you've got good taste. He's a handsome guy."

Ben groans like he's dying. Jon sits beside him on the bed.

Humor doesn't seem to be working, so Jon tries flattery: "Speaking of handsome…" He ruffles Ben's hair, and he can feel the stiff locks that were gelled back for the evening. Someone's hands pushed and pulled the locks into disarray, and Jon catches himself wishing those hands had been his own. "Look at you. That guy had to be nuts, walking out on you like that. I should've given him my card. I think  _he's_  the one with issues to work out."

Whether that earned a smile from Ben remains to be seen, because Ben's face is still buried in the pillow. He's not sniffling or sobbing; if Ben is crying, they are silent tears, and this breaks Jon's heart.

"Ben, I'm sorry. I feel like all of this is my fault. I should have called first before showing up early." Jon doesn't know why he would call the house prior to coming home when he's rarely, if ever, done that before. But if it's what Ben needs to hear, then so be it. "But I wish you would have told me you were having company. I would have made myself scarce."

"No, you'd want to meet him," Ben corrects.

"Do you think I'd embarrass you? You know I wouldn't bring out my guitar until the second date, at least."

"There's not gonna be a second date. He saw you, and now he thinks I'm crazy."

"Ben, no one thinks you're crazy."

"'I think you and your dad have some issues to work out,'" Ben quotes in a mocking voice. "Yeah? Well, screw you, buddy. Maybe you've got issues too, dating a guy who's, like, half your age. Midlife crisis much?"

Jon does his best not to take offense at that last bit. "This will probably sound trite and cliché, but the thing with clichés is sometimes they're dead-on. You're going to meet so many more interesting, exciting people in your lifetime. Break-ups hurt, but they're not the end of the world, even though it may feel like it."

Ben huffs a bitter laugh. "I don't care that he broke up with me."

Jon decides to circle back to that 'crazy' bit. Ben might be trying to hide his true feelings, but every once in a while they leak out on accident. "Then tell me what you're upset about, and we can handle it. Do you think that I think you're crazy? Because I don't."

Ben risks a look at Jon, as though to certify his expression matches his words.

"Let me ask you this: what was the reason you started going out with this guy?" Jon says. "Maybe a reason you're embarrassed or afraid to talk about?"

"Bait that hook, Dad, 'cause you're fishing."

"Any bites?"

Ben glares at him. "You're the brilliant therapist," Ben says with an uncalled-for amount of sarcasm. "What do you think?"

"I think, if you were a patient and not my beautiful son, that maybe you have some unresolved sexual or romantic attraction to your father."

Ben burrows his face into the pillow again. "Every single word in that sentence was disgusting."

"Even the 'beautiful son' part?"

"Especially that." But Ben's blushing all the way to his ears, and Jon feels struck through with excitement like a knife. Because Ben didn't deny it, just brushed it off with a joke, the way he always does when Jon's words strike a nerve.

_Could it be true?_

"Ben, if this is how you feel, you don't need to be ashamed."

"This is so fucked." Ben's voice gets thicker, the way it does before he starts to cry, then he's speaking in hitching little sobs. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Nothing is wrong with you." Jon risks pushing a hand through Ben's hair.

Ben sits up in a rush, pulling the pillow along with him as a makeshift shield between himself and his father. His cheeks are splotchy and red, his eyes wet with tears. "Keep shoveling, Dad! Seriously? I think about you screwing my brains out, and that doesn't strike you as just a little bit weird?"

There's the knife of excitement again, stabbing through Jon over and over. His heart jitters in his chest. "It's unconventional… Do you really—Is that something you want? With me?" Ben blushes harder, and a nervous giggle bubbles out of Jon's mouth. Jon clamps down on it. He doesn't want Ben thinking he's laughing at him. "I don't think I could do it. Screwing your brains out is a younger man's game."

Ben's mouth flickers with a smile, but he's clearly still upset. Any other day and he would've laughed at that.

Jon measures his words with care, as though navigating stepping stones over a raging stream. "Although I think I could try."

Ben's eyes go wide with fear and wonder. His lips part in a little gasp of surprise.

"Ben, I love you more than anything. If this is something that you want, maybe I can try to give it to you."

"What? Why are you okay with this?"

"We're both adults," Jon says, shrugging hands and shoulders.  _And I made you this way,_  he wants to say.  _Maybe if I had pushed you more, you would have grown to resent me, moved out when you turned eighteen, and developed real human relationships. My father was a hard, callous man, but I never wanted him to screw me._

"This is so fucked," Ben says again, like he can't believe they're having this conversation. He clutches the pillow tighter to his chest. "You're drunk, aren't you?"

"No, I'm not. You've seen me drunk, and I've never made a pass at you while intoxicated." Jon's had to stop himself a few times, though. When Ben would pretend that two glasses of wine made Jon unable to breach the distance from the kitchen to the bedroom, he'd slide an arm around Jon's waist and help him along, and Jon would want nothing more than to kiss Ben's snarky mouth. If he ever did it, he'd probably blame the drink, and maybe Ben would believe that.

"Then that makes it worse. Because you don't mean it, and you're just saying all this to make me feel better."

Jon opens his mouth to protest, but Ben cuts him off.

"Or maybe you think I'll back down if you call my bluff," Ben continues. "Like my feelings couldn't possibly be real, because if they are, what's that say about you, huh? If your son's a deadbeat loser in love with his dad, maybe you're not such a great therapist after all."

_In love._

Jon feels his own face heat up. Ben seems to mistake this for the heat of anger, as though Jon is furious Ben has called his profession into question.

"Yeah," Ben says with a scoff. "I knew you wouldn't get it."

At some point in this conversation, Jon lost his footing and fell into the river without even realizing it had happened. Unthinking, he lays a hand on Ben's thigh, closer to his crotch than his knee. Even through his jeans, Ben's skin is incredibly warm. "Tell me what you want, Benny," Jon says, and Ben's breathing turns shaky and quick like a steam engine, "and I'll do it."

Ben looks at his father's hand there, his cheeks flushed. A look of acute sadness comes over his face. "Dad, don't."

"Ben, I don't understand—"

"Right. You don't. 'Cause you don't want this. But you'll give it to me anyway, 'cause that's what you do. When I was a kid, I'd beg for a Game Boy or an Optimus Prime action figure, and you gave them to me, probably just to shut me up. But this is so, so different. You go down this road, Dad, and there's no going back. You'll always be the guy who fucked his son."

"Well, I think I'll leave that part off my business card." But Jon recognizes that Ben is being reasonable despite his own desires, which he finds quite touching.

_He's looking out for you, but who's looking out for him?_

The river has carried Jon out to sea. They've discussed whether they'll have sex too much to simply go and do it now. In the morning, perhaps things will be okay again, their natural equilibrium restored, but tonight is a lost cause.

Jon sighs and rises from the bed. "Why don't we table this discussion and pick it back up after a good night's sleep?" Part of him thinks he's imagined all of this, that everything that happened tonight has been some sort of fever dream. It would certainly be a contender for the top spot in the Bizarre Dreams of Jonathan Katz collection.

"Fine."

"How about a hug? You don't want to go to bed angry."

"I'm not," Ben says but accepts the proffered hug anyway. His arms wrap around Jon's waist, his face nuzzling into Jon's stomach. Jon pushes his fingers through Ben's hair and imagines

( _Ben on his knees, your cock in his mouth)_

being with him in the way Ben wants. Kissing his sugar-sweet mouth in the morning before work. Coming home to him in the evening. Going to the movies or out to dinner on weekends. Falling asleep beside him after making love. In many ways, the core of their relationship would not change in the face of their added intimacy, and yet…

* * *

 Ben lies awake, mentally kicking himself for being such a moron.

_Wow, way to talk yourself out of getting laid!_  Ben's voice of self-loathing chirps from its stronghold inside his head.  _Dad had been ready, willing, and able to do it, too, but no, Little Benny Katz has to be the voice of reason! As if dear old Dad doesn't know what's good for him! Just who's the parent around here anyway?_

Ben supposes it's true that Dad needs someone looking out for his best interests. He's watched their relationship change in the wake of Mom's abandonment, and Dad seems to be incapable (or perhaps uninterested) in forming lasting relationships with anyone else. Outside of Laura and two friends at the bar, Dad has no one else besides Ben. No one, at least, who he trusts with any real, meaningful information. Ben vaguely recalls Dad mentioning a therapist of his own, but he doubts his father tells his shrink anything of worth. So then, of course, the impetus falls on Ben to be everything to his father: a son, a friend, a lover.

If push came to shove, Ben thinks he could make it on his own. It would be tough going, sure, but Ben could eke out a living in his own place. Whatever job he found himself in, he could make at least one friend, and that friend might in turn introduce Ben to other like-minded people. Ben could be normal.

But Dad? No, Dad wouldn't do well on his own, and he hasn't made any real strides toward dating, at least none that ever developed into something serious. Maybe at gunpoint Ben would admit he's acted out for the purpose of regaining his father's attention when Dad met a woman. But Dad has cowed to Ben's whims every time, breaking up with his dates for a variety of flimsy, half-assed reasons. Shouldn't he put his foot down if finding a life partner is important to him?

_But he's already got a life partner,_  that interior voice reminds him.  _And it's you, Benny boy._

Oh yes, Ben understands that much. He discovered it in the lack of hesitation as Dad said something which seemed impossible, but Ben knows to be the truth:  _Tell me what you want, Benny, and I'll do it._

That hand on his thigh. Dad's unwavering resolve. The subtle twitch of fingers, like he wanted to push Ben's thighs apart and take his place between them.

_Maybe you're the one who doesn't want to head down that road. It goes both ways, after all. You'll be the guy who fucked Daddy, and you saw how lonely it is to be that guy. Your boyfriend hit the road when he realized he was just a stand-in for Daddy Dearest._

Ben isn't losing sleep over the departure of Ron Liebowitz, aka Two Out of Three Ain't Dad. What hurt more than the rejection was having his secret revealed so explicitly. No care or finesse, just Ben giving head to a Dad look-alike. But maybe it needed to come out that way.

_Does it matter now? He was ready to give you everything you want, but all you did was grant him time to think. In the morning, he'll realize how batshit bananas this whole thing is and schedule you for some serious psychiatric evaluation._

* * *

 Ben kisses him the next morning before breakfast. Ben's mouth is minty-sweet, his kiss warm and soft and so, so tentative. Surely this can't be Ben's first kiss, Jon thinks, because, at times like these, his brain hits the ejector seat and fucks right off. Ben's hands are on Jon's waist, like they're slow-dancing at prom. Jon doesn't exactly kiss him back, but he doesn't pull or push away. Roz frequently accused him of having no backbone, and he considers she might have been right on the mark on that one. When your twenty-five-year-old son sticks his tongue in your mouth, that's a situation where some sort of action is required.

Ben breaks away, and he's gone impossibly red. Despite his poor eating habits, he's probably too young for a heart attack, so the color comes courtesy of chagrin. "What?" Ben says, his brows drawn together like Jon's the weird one. "It's a new greeting I'm trying out. In other countries, lots of men kiss each other to say hello."

"But I don't think they use tongue," Jon says, devoid of judgment.

Ben blushes harder. He pushes a hand underneath his dark hair to rub the back of his neck.

"Ben, I thought you didn't want me to pursue this. I'm getting mixed messages."

"Yeah, well, I was wrong, okay? I know it's weird and fucked up, but I'm not going to stop you if you're down for it. What the hell was I thinking?" Ben tries a weak laugh.

Jon takes Ben's hand in both of his own and gently draws him nearer. "Why don't we take things slowly? We can work our way up to the 'screwing your brains out' part. Call me old-fashioned"—

"Okay, you're old-fashioned."

"—but I think there's a certain kind of magic in the early stages of a relationship before love-making factors in."

"Oh my God." Ben cannot make eye contact.

Jon giggles; Ben's face is almost as red as Jon's flannel pajamas. "Look at you. If I flicked a drop of water on you, it would sizzle."

"You should fry your eggs on my face," Ben says with a shy chuckle.

"Over easy or sunny side up?"

They share a short laughing fit, and by the end Ben's able to look at him now, albeit only momentarily before his gaze darts away. Jon feels a brief pang of the familiar, companionable air between them.

Jon's still holding Ben's hand. He squeezes it. "Ben, I think we can handle kissing. It's easy; you just put your lips together and blow."

"Dad, that's whistling."

"Oh," Jon laughs, "then maybe it's not so easy."

Ben snickers. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"You could say that."

"Want me to show you again?" Ben asks, his cheeks regaining that embarrassed pink.

"You know what? I bet I could teach you a few things. Come here." Jon takes Ben in his arms and kisses him. He has to stand on his tiptoes to reach Ben's lips, which makes them both smother laughter against each other's mouths.

"Some teacher," Ben murmurs, but he shuts up when Jon finds his lips again. Then he's humming ( _no, moaning_ ) into the kiss, his body a demanding press against Jon's own. Jon feels Ben's erection nudging against his thigh. Lust rises up inside of him in a powerful, startling wave, and his hands are in Ben's hair. An exciting image flashes in his head: Ben on his knees getting fucked from behind, and Jon tugging a fistful of that thick hair as Ben shakes beneath him.

"I'm gonna come in my pants," Jon laughs around the kiss.

"Me too," Ben says, but he doesn't stop. He slips a hand down the front of Jon's pajama bottoms and grasps his cock. Jon gasps a noise of stunned arousal against Ben's mouth. Being touched here is a rare occasion for Jon, even rarer when it turns his whole body into an exposed nerve. It's only a hand job, but Jon feels delirious with pleasure.

_Do not let this happen, Jonathan. Don't you dare,_ Roz's voice shouts in Jon's head.  _He is your—our—son!_

But Jon isn't listening to her. Roz's cold-hearted departure from their family unit renders any input she (or her disembodied voice that lives in Jon's head) might have now null and void. Jon is lost in the smooth caress of Ben's hand around his dick. And Ben is so eager to please, gazing down at what he's doing with immense concentration. There's no impatience, no  _get this over with so it's my turn_  haste. It's like he wants this to be good for Jon.

Jon is reminded of the Jewish proverb:  _When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry._

Ben hooks two fingers of his free hand in the elastic of Jon's pants, tugging them down his thighs just enough for a better view. Jon's dick stiffens further at the chill in the air, and he rocks his hips forward with a needy groan.

Ben smirks. His thumb glides in the beaded precum at the tip of Jon's cock. "What happened to taking it slow?"

"What happened to 'you don't want this'?" Jon volleys back.

"Can't a guy be wrong once in a while?"

Speaking of wrong, Ben's hand and fingers are doing deliciously wrong things down there. Jon thinks he might break apart if Ben keeps touching him, and he does. He presses his face against Ben's shoulder as the world bursts white behind his eyes. Ben makes a tiny sound of surprise, and his sticky fingers linger for a moment, as though all of this is new to him.

"Holy shit," Ben sighs, like he's the one who orgasmed. And maybe he did. Jon becomes aware of Ben still rubbing gentle circles over the softening head of his cock. It's almost achingly good, and Jon thinks,  _Now there's something I never taught you._ He wonders if that's a technique Ben learned from his own self-discovery, or if the Dr. Katz doppelgänger had the pleasure of teaching it to him.

Jon nudges Ben back against the kitchen counter. His knees buckle, muscles still reeling from his orgasm, but he fights through it. His hand pushes inside Ben's shorts, his heart crashing behind his ribs. There's no mess, but Ben's cock is hard and blood-swollen. Precum oozes from the tip, and Jon swirls his thumb over it.

Ben inhales a sharp breath. "Oh my God…" he groans, and after a few soft strokes he's saying it over and over in a rush of words when he comes. Jon just settles in close and murmurs, "Benny," at his son's ear. Ben shivers. They rest there in the kitchen for a moment, catching their breath in the morning light.

"We've got all day," Ben realizes, because it's Saturday, and Jon has no appointments. "We should, uh, take advantage of that." He lifts an eyebrow as though Jon might have missed the suggestion.

"You'll have to give me a moment. I haven't even had my first cup of coffee yet." Jon only managed one sip before Ben took control of his mouth. The mug, still belching steam, sits there on the countertop in an accusing way.

They wash their hands, but Jon suspects they will never be truly clean again.

* * *

 After their morning tea and coffee, Ben takes Dad into his bed. If they're going to do this—or at least try—Ben wants the homefield advantage. They kiss in tentative spurts, interrupted by little bouts of giggles over the absurdity of the situation. For Ben, he's laughing in a "I can't believe we're doing this" sort of way, but Dad sublimates a lot of emotions with laughter, most notably grief. Ben recalls the funeral of a relative in which Dad gave the eulogy; the big idiot couldn't stop laughing through his delivery, which in turn made Ben devolve into giggles. If Dad's laughter here is indicative of some deeper, darker emotion…

"We don't have to—" Ben says, his back against the mattress. "I mean, if this is weird to you…"

"Of course it's weird. But I think we can handle it." Dad gazes down at him. His pajama shirt is unbuttoned just enough to reveal a teasing tuft of salt-and-pepper hair that Ben wants to push his fingers through. "Can you? Or is this your way of putting the brakes on things?"

"No…" Ben wants this—really, he does—but he's never had sex like this before. He doesn't know if it will hurt or—if being fingered is any indication—if he'll die from the sheer nerve-popping pleasure of it. "I just… I've never done it before. Y'know… all the way."

Dad sits back on his heels, positioned between Ben's open legs. Ben is still fully clothed, but he has never felt more naked. "You're not being graded; it's not an exam. But we don't have to do anything you don't want."

Ben knows there's a limit to discussion in these sorts of situations. If they negotiate too long, the moment will be over and near impossible to reclaim. Ben reaches out and pulls Dad back to him. "I'm not scared. Do whatever you want." Ben works on the remaining buttons of his shirt, and he can tell by the way Dad watches his fingers work that there are definitely things he wants to do with Ben. He grasps Ben's wrist with the gentlest touch and kisses his knuckles.

"I want to be sweet to you, Benny," Dad says, and Ben's stomach flutters.

He's not nervous when the clothes come off, not as shy as he'd been with Almost-Dad. Ben doesn't feel like he should hide the dimples on his skin or the extra pounds around his middle. Dad's no swimsuit model underneath his clothes either. But sexual attraction isn't the foundation of their relationship. Whatever bizarre connection they have is built on mutual love and trust. Attraction may not even be a cog in this machine, at least not one Ben is conscious of.

His father's mouth is tender, even when he draws Ben's nipple between his teeth. The strange intermingle of pleasure and pain makes Ben mewl, and his nails rake through the fur on Dad's forearms.

Dad pauses, and there's a hot void on Ben's skin where his mouth had been. "Is that a 'stop' noise?"

"No way. Jeez, how long has it been for you?"

"I'd like to plead the fifth on that one. But you don't forget how to make love. It's like riding a bike."

"No, it's not. There's nowhere to clip the baseball cards."

Dad laughs.

"And no streamers on the handlebars." Ben considers the logistics of this and snickers. "Wait, I guess there could be a banana seat."

This strikes Dad as hilarious, and he collapses over Ben in a fit of giggles. That sound never fails to make Ben smile, then he's laughing too.

"We probably shouldn't be laughing while we do this, huh?" Ben wonders.

"You know, Ben, your mother and I shared a lot of laughs when we made love."

"Yeah, 'cause you were both naked."

Dad gives him a prissy, angry look. "Believe it or not, I didn't always look like this. I had a lot more hair. And a lot less extra pounds."

Ben knows; he's seen the (incredibly dorky) pictures of his father taken in a time before Benjamin Daniel Katz was even a twinkle in Dad's eye.

"But laughing together is a sign of a good relationship," Dad continues. "Even during intimacy. It means you're comfortable with each other."

Ben rolls his eyes with love. "Thanks, Dr. Ruth."

"Did you and your boyfriend have moments like that?"

"No," Ben admits with reluctance. He's staring at the whorls of hair on his father's chest, too shy to meet his gaze. "We, uh, didn't really talk much during sex."

"Was there any chemistry?"

"Jealous much?"

Dad blushes, which Ben finds extremely cute. "Maybe a little."

"Well, don't be." Ben runs a hand along the back of Dad's thigh, fingers pushing underneath the loose fabric of his boxer shorts. "Whenever we… did stuff, I pretended he was you."

"Oh, Ben…" Dad goes red with chagrin, and a goofy smile crosses his mouth. Ben feels a kind of desire wash over him, and he thinks: _I love this man so much._

The sex is weird until it isn't. Ben blushes madly when he digs the bottle of lube from the nightstand drawer, and he can't make eye contact when he hands the bottle to his father. But Dad knows to use his fingers first, opening Ben up with gentle, slippery pushes. A twist of heat races through Ben, and he knows this orgasm, when it comes, will be a thing of wonder.

Shaking with pleasure, Ben begs for more, and Dad settles between Ben's legs to give what he can. Ben closes his arms around Dad's neck, drawing him nearer, then there's a press and a push, and Dad moans, "Oh, Benny," at his ear, and all at once Ben feels like he's flying and being split open. A heady cocktail of excitement, fear, pleasure, and pain fills his nerves. It's too much already, this deep fullness inside of him, a throbbing heat that makes Ben groan and lift his hips, seeking more of it.

And Dad definitely knows that's a good noise, because he doesn't ask if Ben's okay or if they should stop. "You're new at this, so I'll go slow," he says, propped up on the palms of his hands and watching Ben's face. There's an edge of desire in his eyes, passion barely held in check. Ben feels a sense of triumph, understanding that this act between them is something Dad wants just as badly as Ben himself does.

Ben nods, and there's the sensation of being rocked as Dad moves into him, against him, with him. The blow of his breath quickens against Ben's neck, and each little stuttering gasp twists Ben up inside like a corkscrew. He hears the bedsprings squeak along with their movements. The sound of it, coupled with what they're actually doing here, makes him feel deliciously dirty.

"Want me to call you Daddy?" Ben asks, half-joking, and Dad breathes out a chuckle.

"That won't be necessary, Ben."

So Ben's fingers follow the valley of his father's spine, and he remembers how proud he'd been bringing Dad to his third grade class's show-and-tell. He remembers listening with awe as Dad strummed out songs on his guitar, years before Ben would grow to find his father's music lame. He remembers Dad helping him build snowmen in the front yard and making hot chocolate on snow days. All these recollections and more take flight in his head like a flock of birds; Ben clutches his father as though trying to grab some kite tail of memory and soar away.

He feels it now, the final strings of his release beginning to snap, and Ben cries out, his hips rising off the mattress, then he is flying. He bites down on Dad's shoulder as a spiralling sweetness rocks him. Then Dad follows him down, murmuring praise and affirmation as he trembles in Ben's arms. They lie there holding each other for a long moment. Ben gazes at the slow paddle of the ceiling fan blades above him. His inner thighs are sticky and sore, and he imagines he ought to feel shame for what they've done in this bed, but Ben only feels contented. And there's a certain relief that this chasm between them has been bridged.

* * *

 Jon rolls off of Ben and flops beside him on the mattress. He's shaking from the aftershocks of his orgasm and the finality of what they've done.  _You'll always be the guy who fucked his son_ , Ben had warned, and Jon doesn't think that's so bad if this is what he gets in exchange. It's not like he has to  _tell_  anyone.

Jon has never felt dirtier, not even after he discovered masturbation at age eleven and hoped his parents wouldn't find out. The slick slime on his belly is not his own, but Ben's ( _his son's_ ), and there's a deviant satisfaction in how much that arouses him.

"Oh my God," Ben sighs happily, and that sums up Jon's thoughts quite well. "That was… Wow."

"What a wordsmith."

"Yeah, well, it's hard to think. You came in my brain."

"You're the first person to speak highly of that particular skill. You know, they wanted me on the Olympic team for long-distance coming."

"Well, you just took home the gold. Shit, I might be pregnant."

"Don't worry, I'll do right by you, Ben. We'll have a lovely wedding before you start to show."

Ben laughs an easy sound that convinces Jon this is something they can do together and not feel guilty about. Ben doesn't seem like he's having second thoughts, if the way he's cuddling into Jon's space is any indication. And why should Jon have regrets? They are perfect for each other, perhaps the only two people properly equipped to deal with each other's neuroses.

Ben is pressed against him, and Jon feels something growing hard against his thigh.  _Ah, to be young again,_ he thinks, certain he'll spend plenty of time feeling inadequate about his own sexual prowess.

"You're insatiable," Jon says. "I'm only one man."

Ben realizes he's achieved another erection. "Oh. Sorry."

"Show-off," Jon teases with a tender nudge at Ben's side.

"Y'know, just because you're not hard again doesn't mean we're out of luck. I have needs too." Ben ruts against Jon's thigh.

"How could I forget?" Jon says, reaching down to grab him.

* * *

 It only takes about a week before Ben slips into Dad's office and blows him from underneath the desk. Dad grips Ben's hair, and he's whimpering helpless little noises that Ben finds ridiculously hot. Ben's mouth works around the hilt, his tongue dragging along the thick vein that runs up the shaft. When he moans around Dad's cock, the reverberations make Dad groan and sigh and swear, and Ben's lips curl into a smirk. In the short time they've been sexually intimate, Ben has learned his father only swears during the act when it's particularly remarkable. Or maybe it's the loss of control that destroys his verbal filter, since the swearing only happens when Ben's riding him or sucking his dick. Whatever, Ben loves it regardless. He loves having his hair pulled and the way Dad's hips pulse into his mouth.

"Benny…" Dad gasps, and Ben can't stop his own hand from reaching into his shorts and touching himself. A gentle squeeze gets him moaning, and Dad shivers at the hum. "Shit, Benny… Oh…" He looks at Ben for a half-second, their gazes locking, and the sight of Ben on his knees sets Dad off, and he's coming thick and hot in Ben's mouth, biting down on a whiny noise of release. Ben takes it all, humming his approval, because he's kind of a jerk and wants to hear more of those hot little whimpers. Dad doesn't disappoint; his hands tight in Ben's hair, he gasps and murmurs praises until his breathing settles back to a more natural pace.

"Let me take care of that," Dad offers, referring to the way Ben's jerking himself off. And Ben's about to let him do it too, until a knock at the office door sends him scrambling back underneath the desk with record speed.

"Dr. Katz?" Laura says from the other side of the door.

"Can you hold on a second?" Dad's frantically tucking, zipping, and buttoning in an attempt to look like he didn't just get a blow job. He and Ben trade glances, and Ben stays crouched underneath the desk like he's in one of those old earthquake safety videos. If Laura opens the door for a word with Dad, the only thing visible from that angle might be the soles of Ben's sneakers, and Laura probably won't even notice.

"Okay, Laura, you can come in now," Dad says.

Ben hears the door open, then Laura says, "Fred Stoller left a message and cancelled his 12:30. Can I have an extra half-hour on break?"

"Yeah, sure. Knock yourself out." Dad's voice is still a little rushed and breathy, and Ben feels a sense of pride that he made it that way.

Laura thanks him and shuts the door. When she's gone, Dad exhales a sigh of relief.

Ben snickers. "How long 'til she figures it out?"

"I wouldn't put it past her to know already." Dad chuckles, ruffling Ben's hair. The gesture feels oddly out of place considering Ben had Dad's cock in his mouth just a minute ago. "Now come here."

"Yes, Daddy," Ben purrs, laughing at the uncomfortable frown on Dad's face as he climbs into his father's lap. There isn't much room there, but Ben manages, sticking his bent knees in the space between the arms of the chair. Dad makes a sharp noise of want when Ben settles against him, and he smoothes his fingers down the front of Ben's shorts. He takes Ben's cock in his curled fist, his gaze flicking from the flushed head to Ben's equally flushed face. While Ben is turned on by sounds and sensations, Dad, it seems, likes to watch.

The door opens again, and Laura's voice—deceptively calm even in the face of what she's witnessing—rings out: "Gotcha, Dr. Katz."

Ben, still straddling his father's lap, turns his head to look at her. Dad peers around Ben's large form and offers up a friendly therapist smile. "So Mr. Stoller didn't really cancel?"

Laura rolls her eyes like Dad is the world's biggest moron. "No, he did, but I bet you thought I had no idea what's been going on the last couple days, huh?"

"Alright, yeah," Ben starts, "maybe this looks pretty bad." He isn't sure he should bother denying it, since what's going on here is exactly what it looks like. And even if he managed to untangle himself from the chair and Dad's lap, he'd still have the huge honking boner he can't hide, since apparently this entire situation is turning him on. What the  _fuck_  is wrong with his brain?

"Whatever. My sister owes me fifty bucks," Laura says, shutting the door behind her as she leaves.


End file.
